


Contrition

by 1000excuses



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Belts, Community: makinghugospin, Corporal Punishment, Crying, Flogging, Gen, Humiliation, Pain, Prison, Punishment, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000excuses/pseuds/1000excuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a response to this prompt on the kink meme: "I would love some Enjolras/Javert, with Javert spanking Enjolras and<br/>calling him a schoolboy who's bound to fail and get people killed."</p><p>I'd call it more of a beating than a spanking, though. Warning for heavy corporal punishment that is definitely non consensual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrition

The cell door clanged open. "Get him up. The inspector wants to ask him some questions." The guard gave a short, barking laugh as his underling tossed a bucket of filthy, frigid water over the unconscious prisoner.

Enjolras started up, gasping and swearing, looking wildly around for a moment before he slumped to the cell floor, clutching his head. The guard reached in and hauled him upright. "Come on, boy. Inspector Javert wants a word with you about that riot you started."

Enjolras stumbled along behind him as he marched through the prison, ignoring the catcalls and speculation of the other prisoners. He tried to compose himself for the coming interrogation and at the same time remember what had happened to land him here. His friends had been there, he remembered. They had gone to an open market to protest an increase in the price of bread. They had not been the only ones.

Having reached the interrogation cells, the guard unlocked the door of one and tossed   
Enjolras inside. It was easy for the burly man, but less so for his slight captive, who fetched up against the small space's far wall. He struggled to his feet as quickly as he could, but not before another man had entered the room. The inspector towered over his captive as Enjolras tried to straighten up. He ached all over, and could see bruises rising on his arms. Their protest the day before had been peaceful, and so he must have been hurt after being taken into custody. Gazing at Javert, he steeled himself for more of the same. Think of it as research, he told himself, trying to mentally compose an article about the need for reform in the penal system and new laws against police brutality.

For his part, Javert sized up the slight youth. Another university student, most likely, a spoiled boy from the provinces living in the capital on his father's generous allowance. A patron of taverns and brothels who thought it a lark to play at revolution. He would end in the gutter or prison or worse, Javert was certain of it, and none the wiser for his folly. A sneer curled the inspector's lip as he crossed the cell in two strides and drove his fist into Enjolras's stomach.

He fell to his knees, a small cry escaping his lips, a betrayed gasp of surprise and pain that even his iron control could not contain. He remained there only a moment before trying to stand again.

Javert pressed him bodily against the wall and forced him once more to the ground." You will remain on your knees during this interview," he growled," or I will break your nose.  
And if you speak, unless it is to answer my direct question, I will break your arm." He gripped Enjolras' bicep to punctuate the threat. "Is that clear?"

Frozen with terror, at the mercy of someone who a was clearly a sadistic madman, Enjolras nodded cautiously. "That was a direct question," Javert told him, much more evenly. "You may answer 'yes, inspector'."

"Yes, inspector," came the whisper after a moment.

"Good boy," Javert pronounced, and stepped back. Enjolras bent over his bruised stomach, wheezing with anger and misery. He was utterly, completely alone, with no choice but to obey. Hot tears of rage prickled at his eyes, but he blinked them back.

"You may shed tears," Javert told him." I will not punish you for that. I hope you will come to true contrition for your childish behavior." The boy was not a hardened criminal nor a delusioned madman, not yet. Javert hoped he could be persuaded to seek other avenues for his youthful vigor." Do you understand what you've done?"

Enjolras opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking better of his usual defiance. Rhetoric would be useless against this insane policeman. He stared up at Javert, uncertain and hating himself for the loss of his usual surety with words.

"I should punish you for your refusal to answer, but I will not, since clearly you do not understand, or you would not have behaved so foolishly. By your reckless behavior, your dissent-mongering and rabblerousing, you have endangered the public security and upset the natural order of society. That you will be punished for, in the hope that you will turn from your ignorance. Since you have behaved like a child, you shall be beaten like   
A child is beaten, as you clearly were not beaten sufficiently at school."

Enjolras said nothing to this. He could say nothing. "Tell me, boy, were you beaten at home?" Javert asked after a moment of consideration.

"Yes, inspector."

"By your father?"

"Yes, inspector." Enjolras' face burned.

Javert smirked at him, nodding. "I had no father." He paused for a moment, face clouding with memory. Enjolras let his chin drop to his chest and tried to steady his breathing. He would be calm and he would survive this.

Javert seemed to need to compose himself as well. After a moment his bearing changed. He stood straighter, looming over his prisoner. "You will remove your clothing and turn your back."

Enjolras' head snapped up, his eyes alight. This was intolerable. 

Javert shook his head. "You will do it, or I will throw you in a cell with half a dozen poxed madmen, and they will have you on your knees and your back and half a dozen other ways before the night is over."

With shaking hands, Enjolras undid the button of his torn waistcoat and shrugged it off. His shirt followed, and he could feel Javert's eyes on his skin, assessing the damage that had already been done. “Continue.”

The young revolutionary’s face burned as he squirmed out of his trousers and underclothes, struggling to remove them without losing his balance. He did not look up as he turned awkwardly to face the filthy wall. 

Javert watched him for another moment, eyes trailing down the straight, shivering back. There was not a scar to be seen, no marks save a few rising bruises. “The blueness of a wound cleanses away evil,” the inspector quoted, unbuttoning his greatcoat and removing his belt.

Enjolras braced his hands on the frigid floor and tried to still himself. He had a fair idea what was to come, but he still started when the heavy leather snapped across his shoulders, leaving a searing trail of pain in its wake. He blinked hard, trying to absorb the pain, but another blow followed quickly, then another, and he was reduced to rolling his shoulders and breathing in short, quick gasps.

Javert measured out ten strokes before pausing to assess his handiwork. The fair skin was now reddened and crisscrossed with welts. Having taken a belt across his own back many times, Javert knew that the burn was only just beginning, although it would seem unbearable. Further strokes would drive the ache deep into the trembling muscles, where it would linger for days.

“How old are you, boy?” he asked sharply.

Enjolras did not even consider lying, could not consider anything but breathing and remaining upright. “Twenty-one, inspector.”

“Old enough to know how to comport yourself in public.” Javert meant to see if he was also able to take his punishment with dignity. The inspector was doubtful. “Twenty-one more, then.” He resumed without delay, stepping from side to side as he brought the belt down as hard as he could. The heavy leather curled slightly as it struck, biting into Enjolras’ arms until he could no longer keep them still. His composure broke as Javert landed the last three stripes nearly on top of each other, producing a welt that purpled almost instantly.

A low, broken cry escaped Enjolras as he fell forward in a crumpled heap. No matter how he bit his lip he could not contain a miserable whimpering that filled the silence. Hot, humiliated tears coursed down his cheeks and dripped onto the floor. He had never imagined such torment as the burning mess of his back.

Javert only nodded and shook his arm out. He would allow the boy to remain in his cringing position, as it made a fine target of his still pristine rump, a target that could take far more strokes without lasting damage. Some small adjustments would be required first, however, before the prisoner presented an acceptable target. “Place your hands and elbows flat on the floor,” he commanded.

Enjolras obeyed slowly, still sluggish and reeling. He knew more torment must be to come, but he could not imagine it. Javert stepped in and kneed his thighs apart, forcing him to spread and lift his buttocks higher. “Do not move.” No threat was necessary this time. Enjolras had seen what the inspector was capable of inflicting. His only hope of escape was to comply to the letter.

Javert, of course, had every intention of rendering the boy unable to obey. His weakened shoulders would not be able to support him for long, not under the fury Javert meant to reign down. He began low on the muscular white thighs, choosing to lash the most sensitive skin first. Each stroke fell full across both, the tip again cutting deep. Half a dozen had Enjolras writhing.

Javert stopped. “Again you prove yourself a child, unable to submit to your punishment like a man.” He paced around his captive, observing the silent sobs and further rising bruises. “I have seen convicts keep silent through a hundred lashes of a martinet tipped with steel. You cannot bear half that from ten-franc belt.”

Shaking his head, the inspector placed one boot on Enjolras’ lower back and pressed down with all his weight, pinning him to the floor. His captive thus restrained, Javert resumed the beating, painting vicious marks over the trembling ass. Enjolras faltered, struggled, and then lay sobbing on the dirty stone as Javert worked his way up, then back down over the already welted thighs, concentrating on the delicate crease where they began. The flesh turned pink, then red, then spread to purple in swathes. Javert ground his heel down as Enjolras increased his helpless struggles and struck harder until the boy could only lay still. Half a dozen more to his supine form and Javert stepped back.

Enjolras did not move. He understood now how a man could be beaten into submission, how one man could hurt another so thoroughly that all rebellion was driven from him. It was all he could do to breathe: air caught in his throat with each throb of his entire swollen body. How he could ever move again, he could not imagine.

Javert stepped back and called out of the cell for the orderly, who appeared, his bucket refilled. At Javert’s nod, he emptied it once more over the prisoner. Enjolras screamed. Snickering, the guard retreated. 

“You will rise and dress,” Javert said quietly. “And then you will leave this place. Tomorrow you will return to your studies and make them your sole endeavor. You have much to learn.”

Enjolras did not speak, could not. He remained prostrate as the inspector turned on his heel and left, leaving the cell door ajar. Steeling himself, he forced himself to his knees, scrabbling for his abandoned clothes. The weight of cloth on his abused, sodden flesh was almost unbearable, but he fear that if he dawdled, the inspector would return, or he would be locked in for who knew how long, to be subjected to further beatings. Shaking fingers fumbled with buttons and laces as he stood gingerly, blinking back humiliated tears that burned as much as his back. For the first time in his life, he wanted to die, wanted the memory of this day to be erased from all memory. But he could not, for his outrage burned hotter still. Javert had broken him, crushed him and driven him into the ground, but he had not killed him, and Enjolras swore, as he limped out of the prison, that his efforts to prevent such injustice from being visited on any other would be redoubled thereafter.


End file.
